


Turquoise

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [13]
Category: The Hangover (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slave is given a night of freedom from his mistress, to celebrate with his friends, and trouble ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turquoise

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.   
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this alternate universe, which I own nothing from.
> 
> Visual reference:  
> Talula--Jessica Biel  
> Turquoise--Bradley Cooper

            Talula raised an eyebrow as she saw the blond coming out of the hotel villa she was approaching. The woman was quite attractive in a minidress that showed off her long legs, and she carried her shoes as if she hadn’t wanted to make any noise when she’d left. As the two women passed each other the blond gave Talula a slightly sheepish grin, though it wasn’t _really_ embarrassed, and kept on going. She didn’t seemed worried about where Talula was headed, although there were several other doors along the corridor that could have been her destination. Talula let her slip onto the elevator before she continued—not because _she_ was embarrassed, but because she didn’t want the woman to make some kind of scene. In case she was that kind of person. Talula was trying to be discreet, after all.

            Once the hallway was clear, Talula proceeded to the door at the end of the hall and swiped the card she’d gotten from the manager. She opened the door slowly, not sure what to expect on the other side. Nothing jumped out at her; in fact, the room was disturbingly silent, aside from the hiss of the broken TV dangling from one cord behind the bar and the burble of the overflowing Jacuzzi, bubbles and inflatable objects bobbing on its surface. There was an unconscious man on the floor in the middle of the room—not the man she was looking for, though, and Talula bypassed him to check the other rooms. She thought she glimpsed a bare foot sticking out from behind the bar, but it was too hairy to be attached to the person she sought.

            Finally she turned towards one of the bedrooms and saw him, sprawled on the floor in the satin bedspread that had been stripped from the mattress nearby. Why he’d decided to sleep on the floor, she couldn’t say; and probably neither could he, judging from the wanton destruction meted out on the hotel room. Anyone who would create a pyramid of beer cans, drape feather boas around Roman-esque statuary, and let an expensive leather chair start to smolder to the point where the stuffing was popping out could not be expected to make sound decisions about where to sleep.

            He was alone, which she appreciated. Although the blond could have easily just left his side, as well as others who had gotten up earlier. His shirt was off; she couldn’t see the rest due to the blanket, but she allowed herself to admire his muscular back and arms for a few moments, feeling the same sort of possessive delight she often felt when she saw him. Even when he’d done something wrong—and the state of this expensive hotel room was _definitely_ wrong—she found it difficult to be angry with him as she remembered all the pleasure he had given her in the past.

            Of course, that wouldn’t stop her from punishing him.

            There was a noise behind her and Talula turned to see the man who had been face down on the floor in the foyer start to rise unsteadily. She moved further into the bedroom, not hiding exactly, but not making her presence known as she stood off to the side and watched. The man fumbled for his glasses, then sat down heavily on the couch, a blank and bleary look in his eyes. Another man staggered up from behind the bar—not wearing any pants, as far as Talula could see—and immediately tripped, falling over backwards with a clatter.

            “Are you okay?” the man who had fallen asked the man on the couch, when he had struggled back up.

            “No, I am not,” the other man replied flatly, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Talula recognized a massive hangover when she saw it.

            The pantsless man—he was wearing a t-shirt that clung to his round belly, and what appeared to be a jock strap, not that she wanted to look very closely—stumbled across the living room and straight into the bedroom where Talula stood, as still as she could. He had one thing on his mind, however, and made a beeline for the bathroom, skirting the edge of the blanket pile on the floor. Talula tried to ignore the unmistakable sounds of his activity in there and focused on how best to wake up the man on the floor—a little nudge of his hand with the pointed toe of her high-heeled shoe might be dramatic, as he slowly tilted his head up to see her. She imagined the looking of dawning realization and horror on his face as he realized she was there—and wondered what she was going to do to him. It was all she could do not to smirk and ruin her grim expression.

            She heard another sound from the bathroom, kind of a growl, and then the man without pants stumbled out, staring back into the bathroom in shock. Before she could say anything he tripped right over the man on the floor, bounced off the bed, and thudded to the floor. So much for waking Turq slowly—instantly jarred awake he curled up in pain around his kicked ribs, looking around for the source of the blow, and both he and Talula winced as they got a full view of the pantsless man from behind. Yep, definitely a jock strap.

            “G-------t, Alan!” Turq swore. “Put on some g-----n pants!”

            “There’s a tiger in the bathroom!” Alan shrieked hysterically. “Don’t go in there, Turq!”

            “Alan, calm down, it’s me,” Turq placated him, managing to be patronizing despite his grogginess. It was hard to be patient with someone who had kicked you awake, then mooned you—at least, with someone who looked like Alan did.

            “What?” the man on the couch called over.

            “There’s a tiger!” Alan repeated. “In the bathroom!”

            Turq stumbled to his feet. “Okay, okay, I’ll check,” he muttered, clearly certain that this was all a hallucination of some kind. Talula managed to not be noticed by any of them—their senses weren’t so sharp right now, and she figured they probably took her for some kind of decorated statue. Turq opened the door of the bathroom and stuck his head in, over Alan’s protests, then suddenly jerked back out and slammed the door. “Holy s—t, he’s right!” he reported—with a huge grin on his face. “There’s a f-----g tiger in there!”

            Talula decided he was a little too entertained by the idea of a large wild cat having somehow been transported to the bathroom of their hotel villa. “Well, you _were_ busy last night,” she opened with.

            Everyone in the room jumped, as far as they were able. She got a good expression of shock and dawning horror off Turq, although not as good as if he’d been looking up at her from the ground. Of course, soon he was doing that anyway, because like a good slave he’d dropped to his knees before her when he regained his senses. “You’ve _all_ been very busy,” she went on coolly, giving the other two men disdainful looks. Alan seemed intimidated and ducked down behind the edge of the bed; but the man on the couch was either too hungover or too used to his freedom to respond properly. She would have to keep an eye on him.

            “Mistress,” Turq stammered, head down. “I—um—I didn’t expect you so soon.”

            “Clearly.” She walked around him slowly, toeing the blanket out of her way so her heels would make more noise on the marble floor. “What, exactly, happened last night?”

            There was a pause, uncharacteristic for him, though she almost didn’t notice because she was admiring his back again as she circled him. The urge to reach out and touch him was powerful, but she resisted—she had to torment him a little first, and anyway they weren’t alone. “I don’t know, Mistress,” he finally answered. “I can’t remember anything.” He sounded troubled by this realization.

            “I can’t, either,” sighed the man on the couch.

            “Me, neither,” Alan added, though no one seemed to care about that.

            “You can’t remember,” Talula repeated dryly, although she believed him. She finally gave in and tipped his chin up until his blue-green eyes met hers. They were bloodshot and the skin around them pale. “You look horrible,” she told him, although that wouldn’t have stopped her if they had been alone.

            “I feel like s—t,” he admitted.

            She sighed and broke contact with him. “Well it seems like you have a lot of cleaning up to do,” she decided, turning towards the door. Was it her imagination, or did he seem slightly relieved that she was leaving? The thought made her stop and face him again. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Get it done.” Then she strode briskly out the door, letting it snap shut behind her.

            She was surprised to realize she was angry as she stalked back down the corridor towards the elevator. She had given him the night off to be with his friends, his free friends, and she had anticipated that he would be slow to recuperate in the morning—Turq always knew how to party when given the chance. She had meant to wait until later to check on him—until after noon, at least—but she found herself impatient to see him. So maybe she was angry at herself for giving in, for letting _him_ have power over _her_ (however inadvertently). She needed to keep him at a greater distance, she decided as she stepped onto the elevator, gripping its cool brass railing firmly. If he didn’t want his friends to see her, or his treatment of her, or he wanted to spend more time with them—well, fine, he now had until tomorrow morning to be free of her.

            Good luck getting rid of the tiger on his own, though.

**

            He was lying in the dirt at the side of the road when she saw him next.

            The sun was low on the horizon but heading upwards, just crossing the tops of the massive rock formations in the desert outside of Las Vegas. Normally Turq would never have been up this early, but she understood he’d had quite a wild time since she’d left him—and not wild in the sense of the night of freedom. Her driver opened the door of her limo, now parked on the side of the sandy, two-lane road, and she stepped out carefully, wary of stumbling on the uneven ground. Her heels were definitely not made for desert scrub.

            There was another man on the ground with him—from her limo Talula had seen him knock Turq down and take the cell phone from him, though from the way they both slouched on the ground still it didn’t seem like they were fighting. That was Stu, the dentist, she recalled. A professional man, then. An educated man. Nonetheless, he knew enough to scramble to his feet and scurry back to the battered silver car on the other side of the road when saw her, where Alan and a man she didn’t recognize waited. Turq was starting to pull himself into a sitting position, weariness weighing down every move, when he noticed her. His posture slackened even more, the picture of defeat.

            Of course he still looked pretty d—n good to her. She liked him kind of scruffy, when he hadn’t shaved for a couple days, especially if it was because he hadn’t been behaving properly. If it was his fault she could punish him; if it wasn’t she could comfort him. Either way she won. And she liked the black outfit he had on as well—it was far too nice for lounging on the cracked earth of the desert, though, more like something he might have had on the night before and never gotten a chance to change. The plot thickened.

            He tried to move to a kneeling position but she stopped him, encouraging him to stand instead. “Come on.” He winced as he stood, several times, and heaved a sigh as he trudged back with her towards the limo, stumbling along behind her like a condemned man.

            The inside of the limo was surely more comfortable than lying on the ground had been and he sank back into the plush seat, eyes closing briefly. Talula curled up beside him, no longer angry at him—in fact she was willing to show some compassion, as he had clearly had a rough time lately. She could swoop in and help, make him feel _so_ much better. Whatever trouble he’d gotten into on his own could probably be solved with a few phone calls and the liberal application of cash anyway—hardly unusual.

            “What’s this?” she asked, lightly caressing a raw patch at the corner of his mouth that blossomed into a small but ugly bruise.

            “I got hit in the face with a crowbar,” he stated, with just a trace of embarrassment.

            Hmm. Lucky it didn’t do _more_ damage, then. She would hate to see that face disfigured. Talula let her hand glide down his neck to his shoulder and saw him wince again. There was some kind of bulge under his shirt and he unbuttoned it with a sigh of resignation, revealing a makeshift bandage across his shoulder. She raised her eyebrow at him. “I was clawed by a tiger.”

            Now that the shirt was open she could see more bruises across his chest, including a nasty one down his side. She waited for the explanation. “Hit by a crowbar,” he repeated, “and, car accident.”

            Talula could afford to be sympathetic. “Poor thing,” she clucked, sliding her hand up his inner thigh instead. “It’s _dangerous_ for you to be out on your own.” He grimaced as her hand neared its destination and she pulled back to look at him with a frown. “What?”

            “I also got tased,” he admitted.

            “Tased?”

            “Tasered?” he tried. “You know, those stun-guns cops carry?”

            Talula blinked at him, her sympathy starting to evaporate. “You were tased by a cop?”

            “Well, technically, by a little girl,” he confessed painfully. “It was at a police station, though, and the cops were using us to demo—“

            “ _Where_ did she tase you?” Talula demanded suspiciously.

            “At a police station,” Turq attempted. She glared at him and his look said it all.

            “You were tased in the b—ls by a little girl,” Talula surmised.

            “I guess she couldn’t reach any higher,” he replied lamely.

            Talula drew back to her own seat. “Are you _any_ good to me right now?” she demanded in disgust.

            “I’m really not,” he had to admit. “It f-----g hurts just to think about—“ She let out an angry sigh and turned away. “I’m sorry, Mistress, I really am,” he insisted. “This trip has been—“

            “Well there won’t be another one,” she snapped, feeling a bit petulant now.

            “I couldn’t survive another one,” he told her. Another sigh. “We lost our friend Doug.”

            He sounded so bereft that Talula glanced back at him. “You lost him?”

            “He’s gone,” Turq explained. “He wasn’t in the hotel room when we woke up, and we haven’t seen him since. We thought this bats—t insane Chinese guy, Mr. Chow, had him, but—“

            Talula blinked. “Mr. Chow? _Leslie_ Chow?” Turq seemed surprised she knew of him. “How did you get involved with that nasty piece of work?”

            “I guess we picked him up at the casino the other night,” Turq shrugged. “Oh by the way, Alan drugged us with Ruphynol Friday night, so that’s why we don’t remember anything,” he added flatly.

            “He what?” Talula asked dangerously.

            “He didn’t mean to,” Turq tried to tell her. “He thought it was Ecstasy.”

            “You did drugs?” she confirmed coldly.

            “No, no, he slipped it to us in some alcohol,” Turq insisted. “He thought it was Ecstasy, but it was really roofies.” He pointed out the window towards the man Talula didn’t recognize. “That’s actually the dealer who sold him the wrong thing. You can ask him.”

            Talula gave the situation some thought for a moment. “What happened to the tiger?” she finally asked.

            “It was Mike Tyson’s. We returned it.” Uh-huh. Not exactly what she expected him to say. “Oh, and Stu accidentally married a hooker.” She could only imagine how freaked out the man must have been to discover that. “And I was in the hospital, but we never did really figure out why.”

            She sighed. Then she flicked the intercom switch on the control panel. “Eduardo. That man Doug has been missing since last night. Start a search.”

            “ _Yes, ma’am_ ,” her assistant replied from the front of the car.

            Turq’s eyes lit up. “You may tell your friends to join us,” Talula allowed. “Hernando can drive their car back to the hotel. Maybe he can even find a good repair shop.”

            He leaned forward and pulled her closer, kissing her suddenly. “Thank you, Mistress,” he told her, with all sincerity. Then he kissed her again. Then he winced and pulled back.

            “You’d better put some ice on that,” she told him coolly. He would have to go a long way to show how grateful he was to her after this.


End file.
